


i sing the body electric

by nokomisfics



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: (Flatmates), Alternate Universe - Roommates, Alternate Universe - University, F/F, Feminisation, Genderfluid!Phil, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of Transexual Slurs, University AU, genderqueerness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokomisfics/pseuds/nokomisfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompted genderfluid!phil university flatmates au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i am rusty when i talk

**Author's Note:**

> so for a christmas fic exchange with [llstrs on tumblr](http://llstrs.tumblr.com), i decided to revisit an old genderfluid!phil fic i'd written and transform it into something halfway better. it turned out to be way longer that i thought it would, though, so i'm breaking it up into three parts. here's the first!

> __ This is my body; I have weathervanes  
>  _ They're especially sensitive to dust storms and hurricanes  
>  _ _ When I am nervous my teeth chatter like a wheel-barrel collecting rain  
>  _ __ I am rusty when I talk.

* * *

 

There are days when it isn’t that bad.

There are days when the seam of Phil’s skinny jeans digging into his skin doesn’t make him shiver with distaste and restlessness. There are days when his broad shoulders sit well on either side of his neck, when he doesn’t stare at himself naked in the bathroom mirror and feel wrong, wrong all over, wrong inside out. On those days he attends all of his classes and goes on long walks and, at night, he sinks into the mattress and sleeps softly, soundly.

Then there are the bad days.

His pants are too tight, too confining, and the space between his legs feels unnecessarily full. His t-shirts aren’t tight enough. His chest - he stands in front of the mirror, he stands sideways, and he looks at his chest and it’s unrepentantly  _ flat _ . And something about that feels not right. He combs through his hair and stares at his cheeks and they’re round and soft and make his eyes look pretty. But there are hairs on his legs and back and chest that need to go. And the space, the space between his legs -

Those are the days he lies awake in bed, an itch underneath his skin, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He kicks his comforter off, and then reaches for it again, burrowing under the soft sheets. Sometimes he curls into a ball and bites into a pillow and screams, because the restlessness is too much and too strong and he, everything about him, it’s all  _ too wrong _ .

Phil stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom and whispers the word, ‘girl’. His fingers shake when he tries to shave himself, the razor catching at a point on his cheek, cutting through his skin and making him bleed just a bit.

Before his first lecture of the day - Language and Media - Amy meets him at the canteen and greets him with a bad pun.

“I’d tell you a chemistry joke,” she says, “But I don’t think you’d have a reaction.” Her face is still sporting that early morning bloated look, her eyes red-rimmed but eager nonetheless.

“That’s a terrible one,” says Phil, and he keeps his face straight for a full minute before bursting into a bout of uncontrollable giggles, because puns really are his greatest weakness. But he’s working on it.

“Croissant?” asks Amy, biting into the one she’s holding in her hands. Without waiting for an answer from Phil - because really, who’d turn down the offer of a croissant on a chilly almost-December morning? - she reaches into her bag and pulls out one more, pushing it across the canteen table towards Phil.

He practically inhales it. And then he inhales the rest of her Starbucks - it’s probably some obscure concoction with at least seven words in its name, he can’t be arsed to ask - because she offers it up kindly and he does feel quite famished.

“Late night?” Amy asks sympathetically, and Phil just shrugs in response. Amy knows about his good days and his bad ones, not because he’s told her but because she’s smart that way, but she doesn’t know why. Or, at least, that’s one assumption Phil’s been living with. He doesn’t like other people knowing what he’s yet to figure out.

He’s wearing his most oversized hoodie this morning and that’s probably why, when they get up to leave the canteen, Amy burrows into his chest and steals a hug from him. He doesn’t really feel like being reminded that Amy, at 6”4, is a couple of inches taller than him, but he also doesn’t really mind Amy’s hugs. She circles her arms around his chest, not his waist, and doesn’t breathe into his neck like all the other girls he’s hugged always do. She hugs him like she hugs her other girl friends and it’s. It’s nice.

Or something.

On Thursdays he doesn’t have any free slots that coincide with Amy’s ones, so after his second lecture he buys a waffle from the canteen and escapes into the library. He has three essays that need to be handed in before his next lecture and he’s only written two of them, a brave and careless action that is probably more careless than it is brave.

The library isn’t as empty as he’d been hoping it would be, but he finds an isolated table in between two racks of books and sinks into the corner-most chair, pulling his laptop out of his backpack and setting it up in front of him. Then he plugs his earphones in and begins typing and the time, thankfully, flies.

An hour later and the restlessness gets a bit worse. It’s been happening more frequently as of late. He gets these  _ fits _ , where his leg won’t stop shaking and his skin is crawling and if he runs his fingers through his hair he has a tendency to tug at its ends, tug until it hurts. He snaps his laptop shut and pushes the chair back. His hoodie sits unsatisfyingly against his flat chest and he has an overwhelming urge to cross his legs, so that his jeans ride up and a bit of his ankles can be seen.

He stands up instead.

He shudders then, almost violently, and there are tears in his eyes before he can help it. He’s been living with days like these for as long as he can remember, and he doesn’t know why it’s any worse today, but all of a sudden his throat is dry and aching and he knows he’s about to cry. He just. He refuses to.

There are footsteps behind him. They’re loud, quick, like someone’s running. And then there’s a deep voice saying “Hey”. Phil rubs at his eyes quickly and then turns around, and there’s Dan Howell standing in front of him, cheeks adorably flushed and hair messed up. “Hi,” he says again, coming to sit on the opposite side of the table Phil has occupied. “You left early this morning.”

Phil looks at him for a moment, takes deep breaths. When he’s absolutely sure the tears in his eyes aren’t going to leak out, he sits back down. “Yeah,” he says after a beat too long. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Dan smiles again, big and bright. “I made you tea, actually, and then you didn’t come out of your room so I knocked? And then I opened the door ‘cause, you know, in case you overslept or something. But you weren’t there. So I had your tea. Sorry about that.” Dan ends with a sheepish grin, one Phil returns.

He’s still getting used to having a roommate.

Phil spent his first year of college in the dorms, new to Manchester and unaware that he had the choice of living off-campus. He moved into an apartment the moment he could, though. And after quickly realising his part-time job at the museum wasn’t going to cover the entire rent, he put out an ad for a roommate. Dan was a bright-eyed, dopey freshman whom Phil got along with almost instantly, but they’ve only been living together for three months. And this is the first time Dan’s actually approached him outside of their small two-bedroom flat.

“So,” says Dan, leaning across the table and peeking at Phil’s notes. “What are you up to?”

“An essay,” Phil replies. He looks down at the document he’s got open on his Mac, and then a new wave of restlessness hits him and he shuts the laptop, resting his head over it and willing the nerves down. “Tired,” he grunts.

“I’d say,” Dan says with a laugh. “The Christmas hols are almost upon us, anyway. ‘Tis  _ not _ the season to write essays.”

Phil bites back a grin and wonders - not for the first time - at Dan’s ability to be so carefree. As a freshman, Phil remembers rushing around trying to meet his deadlines and make friends and please everybody. Amy was the one who shut him down, in foresight. Dan and Amy just might make fast friends.

Phil lifts his head and leans back, figuring he might as well make an attempt at conversation. “Are you heading home for Christmas?” he asks in a manner he  _ hopes _ isn’t awkward.

“Well,” begins Dan, and then he begins to laugh. “I mean. My parents  _ do _ live round the corner from us, so I just  _ might _ .”

“What?” Phil splutters, and in that moment he feels so  _ so _ stupid. He can’t believe - in all the conversations they’ve had since Dan moved in - that it’s never come up that  _ Dan is from Manchester _ . His first instinct is to exclaim - “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t come up?” He shrugs his shoulders, eyes playful. “It’s no big deal, Phil, calm down.”

“I am calmed down!” insists Phil, except he knows what he sounds like. And he isn’t sure why this has him so riled up, but all of a sudden his nerves have crashed down on him and his leg has begun to shake incessantly. He leans back and tries to take inconspicuous deep breaths.

“Alright,” says Dan in amusement, oblivious. “How ‘bout you, heading up north once college breaks out?”

“That’s the plan,” answers Phil. He licks his lips and looks down. The idea doesn’t sound as appealing as Dan makes it out to be - he misses his parents, he really does, and he knows Martyn will be going home too and it’s always nice to catch up with him - but. But he still needs to figure out this  _ thing _ that’s happening to him, that’s been happening to him for a long time, and he  _ knows _ his mum will call him out if he’s been having one of those days and. Phil doesn’t really want any of that. He’s kind of tired.

“You might want to control your enthusiasm on that,” says Dan jokingly, and follows his words up with an awkward laugh when Phil just looks down and doesn’t respond. “Hey,” he says again, voice softer. “Don’t worry about it. Family’s a little different for all of us, eh?”

“Yeah,” says Phil faintly. Then he glances at his wristwatch and pulls on a genuinely regretful face. “Next lecture starts in a few minutes,” he tells Dan apologetically and begins to gather up his things.

“No problem.” When Phil looks up at him, Dan’s got that unrelenting grin on his face. “I’ll see you later, I s’pose?”

“Yes you will,” answers Phil. He gives Dan a salute, and then he’s off.

_ im sorry, philly! told gratia i’d go over and help her out with a thing, and she insisted i have dinner there. i’ll make it up to u!! sorry love x _

Phil stares at the message until his eyes glaze over. Then he quickly taps out a reply ( _ its okay amy have fun x _ ) and pushes his phone back into his pocket. Leaning forward in his desk, he tries in vain to concentrate during his last lecture of the day. His phone buzzes again and he thinks he really doesn’t want to talk to Amy right now. He isn’t pissed with her - he really isn’t - but neither does he fancy spending the evening on his own. Not on a day like this one.

After a while, Phil digs his phone back out of his pocket and unlocks it to check his messages. He’s weak, he accepts dejectedly.

To his surprise, it’s a message from Dan.

> _ when are u coming back? i made us soup & its hottttt ;) _

Phil flushes at the message, touched. In his hand his phone buzzes again, and another message pops up from Dan.

> _ oh my god, i don’t know what i was thinking with the winky face pls ignore it? the soup rly is hot tho xD _

And then:

> _ christ no i didn’t mean the xD it isn’t fucking 2009 im sorryyyyy _

At that, Phil nearly laughs. He claps his hand over his mouth just in time, and thankfully nobody hears the almost squeak-like noise he’s emitted. Then he taps back a reply:

> _ lecture ends in 20 minutes fret not im not adverse to reheated soup !!! thanks dan ;) xD _

Turns out he has plans for the evening, after all.

* * *

 

They take their bowls of soup and settle in front of the telly, where The Great British Bake-off is currently playing. Phil realises he quite likes Dan’s taste in television shows. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” says Phil around a mouthful of soup, but Dan just looks at him like he’s crazy. “The soup’s really good, though,” he rushes to add.

“Thanks.” Dan’s grinning at him now, all bright and unfamiliar. “Mum’s recipe. I picked up some chicken from the grocer’s earlier - I also bought the stuff on your list, I hope you don’t mind. It was on the fridge and I’d figured, why not?”

“‘Course not,” says Phil, feeling oddly touched, and then immediately begins patting around for his wallet. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You can always do that later.” Dan waves his hand like it’s no big deal, but he’s a freshman without a job that Phil knows of so he certainly can’t be doing very well. His parents must be loaded, Phil decides.

“Stop worrying about it,” Dan tells him, and Phil rearranges his face. He must have been frowning.

“So,” Phil ventures, still a bit uncomfortable with the silence that follows. “The Great British Bake-off, yeah?”

“Oh, shut up.” Dan pulls a face, but he’s still blushing, so that’s something.

“I’m not one to judge,” Phil continues. “But  _ really _ , Dan.”

“Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying it!” Dan says loudly, turning in his seat to point at Phil with an indignant finger. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t secretly love seeing fifty-somethings bicker over the perfect cupcake recipe! You can’t, can you?”

Phil’s laughing now, giggles bursting out of him quite against his will. He squirms away from Dan’s finger and says, “I’m rather sure Alberto’s much younger than fifty. And quite fit, too.”

Dan throws a cushion at him.

* * *

 

> __ This is my heartbeat.  
>  _ Like yours, it is a hatchet, it can build a house or tear one down.  
>  _ _ My mouth is a fire escape, the words don't coming out cannot care that they're naked.  
>  _ __ There is something burning in here.

* * *

 

It starts up again a week before they break for Christmas.

He’s in Amy’s dorm room, sitting cross-legged on her bed as she throws her clothes haphazardly into a small suitcase on the floor. They’re supposed to be studying - for what, he doesn’t know, because lessons are more or less done for the term - but from the moment he’d walked in some three hours ago all she’s done is pack for her holiday and rant about university dorm rules.

“And it’s not like we’re going to fuck, right?” she says, for what feels like the fifth time in the last three minutes.

“We aren’t,” Phil responds, like he always does.

“So why  _ shouldn’t _ you be allowed in my room?” she continues, not paying attention to Phil in slightest. She reaches blindly into her closet and extracts no less than five plaid skirts from there. She throws them into the suitcase and adds, “I fucking hate heteronormativity.”

It’s a mouthful. Phil looks at her, slightly awed, at her flushed cheeks and her wild hair and her long, long legs. She's a sight to behold, his Amy. He wonders for a moment what it must feel like to kiss her. “Does that mean you're gay?” he wonders out loud.

She spares him a glance now, if only to glare. “It means I want to be able to hang out with my best friend in my room without being accused of fucking him.”

“Technically I'd be doing the -” Phil stops himself. “The screwing,” he finishes lamely.  _ Best friend. _ It bounces around in his head.

“Don't talk,” Amy tells him. “You're on a vow of silence, effective immediately. Shut up.”

Phil falls silent, if only because he gets helplessly starry eyed when Amy acts all bossy with him. His heart tugs with something fond and he thinks to himself that he loves Amy more than anything in the world. Then he realises she’d cleverly sidestepped his question, and makes a mental note to bring it up some other time. The mental note falls, like all of Phil’s other mental notes have fallen, into the grand abyss that is his brain, and then promptly disappears for the next million years.

Amy’s going to Poland this year, with her family (the full,  _ extended _ one) and also with, interestingly, Gratia Lancaster, her small petite American friend from the economics course she’d taken last term. Amy’s family has the habit - and the means, Phil supposes - to splash out every Christmas, and it’s not like she’s never invited Phil around, but it’s always seemed to Phil like a family thing he’d be intruding. Gratia doesn’t seem to give two fucks about intruding on Amy’s family time. Phil wonders if it’s a meet-the-parents thing, and has to tamp down a grin.

“I can see you smiling like a cheeky fucker,” Amy tells him. She strides across the small room to fetch a crumpled up t-shirt that’s lying on the bed behind Phil, and then hits him on the head with it.

Phil shrugs at her, innocuously, and keeps his grin.

Almost forty minutes later, he begins to feel restless.

It starts in the balls of his feet, tickling up his toes and leaving them twitching in its wake. His knee jerks, of its own accord, and the skin of his belly feels tight. The clawing starts from within, scratching at his neck, wanting to get out. Wrong, wrong, he feels so fucking  _ wrong _ .

“Are you okay?” Amy asks him. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the bed now, on which is Phil is sprawled out on. She’s been re-packing everything into her bag, folding everything into small, neat squares so that they fit. His knee-jerk might have alarmed her.

“Of course,” Phil responds. It feels tight, slipping out through the grit of his teeth. The lie sounds bad even to his ears.

“Phil,” Amy says, turning to look at him, her eyes wide and concerned. “Are you okay? God, hon, you look pale. Come here.”

Phil slumps onto the floor wordlessly, leaning into Amy to let her take his temperature, even though he knows she won’t detect anything out of place. At least, not on the outside. He’s got a different kind of fever, the kind that starts in his bones and fights to get out, makes him shake from holding in too long, repeats the word in his head like the steady thump of an execution drum.  _ Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. _

“Are you okay?” she murmurs again, now aware that he isn’t sick but still not stupid enough to think he’s perfectly fine. She pulls him close, lets him tremble into her shoulder. “Hey, hey now. What’s going on?”

It’s not like she doesn’t know, not like this has never happened before. Amy’s probably got it all figured out, smart arse that she is. But that doesn’t mean that Phil can’t get scared, even if the fits have been coming more often as of late, have been making him want to strip naked and lie down and take inventory, call out all the parts, all the  _ wrongs _ .

He won’t tell her, but in her frenzy of packing and unpacking and re-packing again, he’s nicked one of her skirts, slipped it into his backpack when she wasn’t looking. It’s short and black, made of leather, hangs to the middle of her thighs when she wears it, which she hasn’t for quite a while. That’s what makes it okay, he’d reasoned to himself. She won’t miss it. She won’t even know it’s gone. She’ll go to Poland and he’ll go home, and lock himself in his room, and stare at the skirt. He’ll probably never wear it. He’ll probably keep it there in his closet, and return it when Amy comes back, and claim to have mixed it up with his coat,  _ ha-ha, fancy that! _

“I’m fine,” Phil says again. It doesn’t come out sounding any better but this time, Amy lets it go.

At nine, he leaves Amy’s room and walks back to his flat, not too far from the university campus. The lights in the living room are off and the door to Dan’s room is closed, and the flat is quiet enough that he’s convinced Dan isn’t home. In his own room, he flings his backpack to the side and climbs into bed, leaving the lights off and burrowing under his comforter. The heater’s turned up so that it’s warmer than usual, and the thin sheen of sweat that forms quickly on his skin does nothing to alleviate his growing restlessness.

He wants to scream.

Instead, he gets out of bed and pulls the skirt out of his backpack. He stares down at it, at the soft material resting between his fingers, stares at it till his eyes glaze over. He should call Amy and tell her he’s taken it, but he doesn’t know the right words to use. He should go back to Amy’s right now, leave the skirt on her bed and demand they never speak of it again. He _ should _ .

He kicks off his jeans and pulls the skirt up his thighs. It stretches across his arse but fits snugly around his waist.

(The itch under his skin immediately diminishes.)

He looks down at the skirt, looks at how it ends high on his thighs and contrasts with the pale of his skin. His fists clench of their own accord, and he drags in three slow, deliberate breaths.

Then he sets about cleaning his room. There are clothes strewn across the floor from the fit he’d had in the morning, when he’d been convinced absolutely nothing he owned would make him feel okay enough to get to his lectures and sit through them. He picks up the clothes now and folds them against his chest, throwing them into the closet when they’re small enough to fit. When the floor is cleared, he moves on to the myriad of multi-coloured socks lying on his bed, rolling them into tiny balls like his Mum had taught him to, not caring to pair them up correctly.  The desk is a bit of a mess, too, so he stacks all of his notes on one end of the table and all of his textbooks on the other end. His laptop lies in the middle, snapped shut. He opens it carefully and pulls up iTunes, choosing a random playlist and hitting play.

The music helps him to calm the rest of the way down, and he takes the laptop with him when he wanders out of his room and into the kitchen, suddenly famished.

He makes himself a ham-and-cheese sandwich, fetching the ham and cheese from the fridge and slapping two slices of each in between of the wholemeal loaf sitting on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t remember adding that to his list so Dan may have bought it on his latest trip to the grocer’s – it hadn’t been a verbal decision, but over the past month Dan had become unofficially in charge of keeping the fridge and cabinets stocked. They’d worked out a system where Phil would leave his list on the fridge and pay him back at the end of the week. The domesticity of it sat well with them. 

He wolfs down the sandwich, and then makes two more. He’s buttering down the third one when there comes the sound of the front door opening, and Dan calls out loudly, “Phil? Are you home?”

“In the kitchen!” he says before he can think it through, and then Dan’s ambling in and stopping in his tracks and staring at Phil, who is still wearing the skirt. Who has apparently  _ forgotten _ that he is wearing a  _ fucking skirt _ .

“Why’s the flat so dark?” Dan asks, but his casual tone isn’t fooling anyone. His eyes are fixed on the exposed skin of Phil’s legs. He won’t look away.

“Forgot to turn the lights on,” Phil responds. He looks at Dan for a beat more, and when he doesn’t say anything back –  _ or _ look away from the lower half of Phil’s body – Phil turns back to the bread in his hand and butters the rest of it. Then he sets the knife in the sink and folds the sandwich, bites into it, sidesteps Dan and walks out of the kitchen.

If Dan isn’t going to talk about it, Phil isn’t going to talk about it either.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Dan says behind him. “Would you like some tea?”

Phil hums his assent and goes into the lounge, settling down in one of the two arm chairs and folding into himself, careful while crossing his legs. He eats the rest of the sandwich and then digs the remote out from the side of the chair, flicks the telly on to an episode of the Great British Bake-Off that he’d saved from last week.

“Have you seen this one?” he asks Dan when he enters the lounge with two cups in his hand. He hands Phil one before taking his own to the other arm chair and sitting there gingerly.

“Haven’t,” Dan answers. He takes a sip of his tea, and when Phil looks at him there are two spots of red high up on his cheeks. Phil wonders for a moment if Dan’s added a dash of vodka into his cup – it’s not like he hadn’t seen the bottle in the cabinet below the sink last week.  

They watch the chefs yell at each other and laugh and bicker on the telly for a good twenty minutes, except Phil doesn’t quite pay attention, can’t quite make himself to when the words _I’m wearing a skirt_ _Dan’s seen me wear a skirt I haven’t taken the skirt off and Dan is seeing me in a skirt_ chase themselves around his head. He doesn’t know what’s going on but he wants to _know_.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Phil finds himself saying. He keeps his eyes fixed on the telly, and in the corner of his eye he sees Dan’s head jerk up.

There’s a beat of silence that’s so long Phil’s convinced Dan might not say anything at all, until he says, “Do you like to crossdress?”

Phil flinches. He hadn’t meant to, but it happens anyway. “Don’t say that,” he says without meaning to, and then quickly amends it with, “I don’t know what to call it yet, so. So don’t call it anything.”

“What don’t you want me to call it?” Dan asks. He’s turned his body now so that it’s angled completely at Phil, and it isn’t as scary as Phil thinks it might have been with anyone else. Dan’s voice isn’t demanding, or accusatory, or sharp. It’s just curious. He’s just  _ asking _ .

“I’m not, like.” Phil pauses. “I’m not a she-man.”

“Has anyone called you that before?” Dan asks without missing a beat. His voice has hardened, has taken on a sheen of protectiveness. 

“No,” Phil says. His voice is softer now, the sounds from the telly almost overpowering it. “But that’s because I’ve never – never done this before, I s’pose.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Phil takes a gulp of his tea, finishing off the last of it. It’s the perfect blend of sweet and milky.

“Well,” Dan begins, and then stops himself, clearing his throat audibly. Phil looks at him again, at his friendly brown eyes and the oversized university hoodie he’s got on over tight-fitting dark jeans. There’s nothing about him that isn’t familiar at this point, and Phil feels fond despite himself. “Does it feel good?” Dan asks, catching him off-guard.

Phil doesn’t have to think too long about it; all he’s got to do is remember how it felt like he could  _ breathe _ again when he first put on the skirt, how it felt so natural he’d almost forgotten he had it on until Dan had walked in on him making sandwiches.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice hoarse.

“Okay,” Dan answers. Phil braces himself for something to follow, but nothing comes. Dan turns his attention back to the telly, where the Frenchman has shoved a fancy-looking bread in the face of the bearded surfer dude and is now attempting to make a quick curry. After a while, Phil does the same.

“Do you want to order takeaway for dinner?” Phil asks when the episode’s over, and the Frenchman has been sent home for an overly sour salad.

“Yeah. Number four from the curry house? I’ll call it in.” Dan’s already making a beeline for the phone.

“Yeah,” Phil says, watching him go. “Thanks.”

He retreats to his bedroom, where he tugs the skirt down his legs and folds it into a small square, keeps it on his bed and doesn’t look back at it. He changes into pyjamas and an old hoodie – one of the first ones he’d ever bought, grey and soft and faded-looking – and when he goes out and into the kitchen where Dan is, he doesn’t say a thing.

Phil really lucked out on the roommate front, he thinks. Of all the creeps the university had to offer, he got the most bright-eyed, kind-hearted person he’s ever known. Amy aside.

Dan’s sitting cross-legged on the counter, cradling the house phone against his ear. “Yeah,” he’s saying into it, “And a number seven, hold the chilli? Yes, thanks. Alright, I’ll be by in twenty. You have a good night too.”

“They didn’t have your potato curry,” Dan tells him, tone genuinely regretful, once he’s off the phone. “So I got a biryani instead? I heard they make a mean one.”

“Long as you didn’t make them hold the chilli for that too,” Phil says, and it’s only half a joke. Dan cracks a smile at it anyway.

The tension isn’t completely gone; despite Dan’s casual demeanour it’s a bit difficult to convince himself like he hasn’t mucked up whatever easy system he and Dan had slipped into over the past few months, but he maintains that he won’t bring it up if Dan won’t. They’ll move on from it, and Phil will never wear a skirt again, and they’ll go back to being the best pair of roommates their landlord has ever had over.

Despite everything, or maybe because of it, Phil cries himself to sleep that night.

“You’ve got to talk to me,” Amy says. They’re sitting in the carpeted floor in between of two shelves in the university library, in a section that is deserted enough that they can talk above a whisper without being immediately shushed. Phil’s got a textbook open in his lap, and his laptop on the floor in front of him. He’s trying to  _ study _ . 

“I don’t have anything to say,” he lies. 

“Don’t lie to me.” She pokes his shoulder. “Phil. Don’t lie to me.” 

Phil looks up, at her kind eyes and her curly hair that’s tucked into a beanie this afternoon. “You’ve got to talk to me, too,” he says in a tone he hopes sounds rational. “You haven’t told me about Gratia just yet.” 

“There’s nothing to say,” Amy lies. 

Phil rolls his eyes at her - or, at least, he tries. He’s never been able to master the true art of eye-rolling, a skill Amy probably acquired at the tender age of four, or something. “If you get to lie to me, I get to lie to you too,” he points out, and then returns to his textbook. 

Amy lets him get away with it for whole thirty seconds. “So if I tell you about Gratia, you’ll tell me what’s been bothering you?” 

“I never said that.” Phil bites his lip. 

“But you also didn’t  _ not _ say that,” says Amy deftly. Phil looks at her now, if only to scowl. He knows he’s being stubborn but Amy doesn’t have to be an arse about it, too. Only one of them can act out at a time, isn’t that how friendship works? 

“Does it have something to do with Dan?” Amy prompts. When Phil stays quiet, her eyebrows shoot up, eyes bright like she thinks she’s cracked it. “Is that it? Are you two - you know - fucking?” 

“We aren’t - “ Phil frowns.  _ Say it _ , he tells himself. “We aren’t  _ fucking _ .” Amy’s eyes widen, her lips twitching like she’s about to guffaw. “What? Just because I don’t swear all the time doesn’t mean I  _ can’t. _ ” He knows he sounds petulant, and she’s probably a hair’s width away from teasing the crap out of him, so he ploughs on. “And he doesn’t know that I’m - attracted to boys. At least, I don’t think he does. If he  _ thinks _ he does that would just be terribly presumptuous about him, and I don’t think I’d like him anymore.”

“So you like him!” Amy says, triumphant. 

Phil shuts his eyes tightly. If only she knew how far away from the real issue they’ve deviated. “I like him like you’re supposed to like your roommate. I don’t want to actively murder him in the dead of night, at least.”

“You’re understating it,” Amy decides. “You like him, don’t you? You’ve got a crush on your roommate!” When Phil doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all, doesn’t open his eyes even, she pokes his cheek and crows, “You do! You  _ so _ have a crush on him!” 

“I don’t -” Phil blows out an angry breath. Wrapped around his kneecaps, his fingers shake. “I  _ don’t _ , Amy, fuck.” 

Amy falls silent at that. She’s always trying to trick him into swearing properly, but now that he’s gone and done it she sounds almost scared when she says, “Hey, I was only teasing.” 

“I know.” His voice sounds a bit hollow, a bit apologetic. Mostly, like someone who’s losing it. He forces his eyes open so he can look at Amy, and she seems to have scooted closer, her body warmly pressed beside his. “I just - I don’t know, Amy, I - “  _ Fuck _ , he adds again in his head, deciding not to say it aloud any more. 

It’s begun to feel like there are a million of ants scampering around under his skin. He thinks he’s shaking more now, but he can’t concentrate enough to be sure. 

“I’m going to go now,” he tells her. When he gets to his feet he stumbles a little, realising that both of his legs have fallen asleep while he was on the floor. Amy gets up too, and he leans against the nearest shelf to regain his balance. “I’m sorry,” he says when she shoots him a reproachful glance. His voice comes out cold, distant.  _ Stop _ , he tells himself.  _ Stop. I don’t mean it in that way. _ “I think I’m going to back now.” 

“But your lecture - ”

“I’ll skip it.” 

It’s unlike him, and Amy knows it. When he pushes away from the shelf and tries to hobble out of the little cavity they’ve been camping in for the past hour, Amy makes a move to help him. Without completely registering what he’s doing, he pushes her away. 

By the time he gets back to his flat, the ants under his skin have calmed down, but only nominally. He thinks if Amy forgives him at all after today, he wouldn’t even deserve it. 

He devotes an entire hour to attempting to nap, but he can’t. His body won’t have it. At first it’s too hot, but once he’s kicked his duvet to the side, the wintery chill sets in and he’s reaching for it again. Then his back hurts, and there are lumps in the mattress he hasn’t noticed before, which is stupid. He seems to be suffering from a bad case of phantom lumps, and then phantom boredom, and then phantom - loneliness? 

He reaches for his phone, types out a badly-worded apology to Amy, and doesn’t send it. 

After attempting to nap proves to be unsuccessful, he goes to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee, a habit his mum’s always wished he’s get rid of. He takes the coffee into the lounge and sinks into the L-shaped couch, into the crease Dan’s become so fond of in the few months he’s lived here. The thought of Dan makes something else sit uncomfortably deep in his belly - he doesn’t know what he might think of him now, in the light of day, with all of Phil’s strong headedness and spur of the moment I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude from last night tamped down. 

Phil wonders how, in the matter of a few days, he’s mucked up two of the nicest things he’s ever had. 

The coffee grows too cold too fast, because the heater’s turned down - he vaguely remembers Dan suggesting last week that they do so every morning to save on electricity - so he only takes two sips before getting up to dump the rest of it in the sink. Then he wipes his hands with a kitchen towel, grabs the lists on the fridge and his wallet and keys - staying in the flat is obviously not working for him. 

* * *

At first, he’d only intended to nip to Tesco’s.

Grocery shopping is usually Dan’s department, so when he’s confronted with rows and rows of products, Phil feels momentarily dizzy. He quickly works out a system where he grabs the brand that looks most familiar and, if none of them look familiar, the cheapest one. It’s a good system, he thinks, till he reaches the front counter and the boy there asks him to hand over a ridiculously high amount of money. He almost blanches as he gives him his card, and makes a mental note to repay Dan all of his accrued grocery bills soon as he can. His next thought is that, Dan must be properly  _ loaded _ , to buy both his and Phil’s groceries every week and not badger him for a repayment. 

Once he’s out of Tesco’s, however, he gets distracted by the pretty decorations the town square has put up in anticipation for Christmas. The grocery bags are heavy in his hands, but he lugs them around anyway as he walks down the street, careful to avoid particularly icy bits of snow. The scarf he’d hastily wrapped around his neck before stepping out doesn’t do much to save him from the cold, but - cheesy as it may be - he finds himself warmed by the cheery holiday spirit emanating from the few people who pass him by. It’s isn’t his favourite time of the year for no reason. 

It’s the lace that catches his attention first. 

He’s always had a thing for lace - the lace dresses his cousins would wear for Christmas, the lace socks the girls in his class would pull up to their knees in kindergarten. He likes the way the material looks, soft against soft skin, tickling gently, the mildest kind of taunt. It’s inexplicable, really, when he sees the lacy skirt hanging off the mannequin in a display window, how he’s drawn to it, almost involuntarily. 

It’s a small sort of shop, a hole in the corner with not too many customers visiting. He pulls the glass door open and slips in, bags of groceries and all. 

It smells good inside, like cinnamon and turkey and mistletoe. There’s a woman behind the counter on the far end of the shop - a girl, really, head bowed as she taps away on the smartphone in her hand. She doesn’t give him so much as a nod hello, so he moves to the rack of clothes before he can give it much thought. 

It’s all lace.  _ All _ of it. There are lace skirts, and blouses, and the gentlest pair of lace stockings; there are dresses of all kinds, deep cut and high rise and collared, cinched at the waist and cinched at the bust and A-line, some so lacy they’re bordering on transparent, but only so. He bypasses the rack of dresses, approaches the line of skirts cautiously. They’re short, all of them, about the same length as the one he’d nicked from Amy, and - the thought sends a shiver down his spine, the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to nick any of these. He could just  _ buy _ them, easy as that, own one and wear it when it strikes his fancy. 

The thought is so delightful he goes light-headed for a full minute. 

“D’you need help, or?” asks the girl from the counter, and Phil jerks out of his - whatever - to notice she’s standing beside him, hand on hip, mouth set in a suspicious sort of line. 

“No, I’m - I’m, just, no - ” he stammers, and then sucks in a breath and says, “Which one of these do you think would fit me?”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it - maybe the knowledge that he won’t be back here for a while - probably (hopefully) the rest of his life, and he’ll never have to see her again. Whatever it is, the embarrassment that would otherwise have accompanied the statement is greatly reduced.

The girl just gives him a brief appraisal, a head-to-toe sweep of her eyes, and she must see  _ something _ , because the scowl drops from her face and she moves to pull out a skirt from the rack. [It’s a pale peach and has three layers to it - ](http://img.shein.com/images/sheinside.com/201308/1375859372700161864.jpg) [ _ frilly _ , Phil thinks, is the word - and a button round the back, stitched into elastic that will no doubt fit around Phil’s waist.  ](http://img.shein.com/images/sheinside.com/201308/1375859372700161864.jpg)

“This one’ll go well with your complexion,” the girl says briskly, before pulling out three more in quick succession. “There’s a longer one, if you’d like to cover your knees, and here’s another one to your ankles. This one’s same as a first but in wine red. It’ll make you look paler, if anything.” 

_ She probably thinks it’s for Halloween _ , Phil thinks, even if the holiday’s now eleven months away. “I like the first one, I think,” he says, reaching for the skirt in question and holding it to his waist gingerly. 

The girl watches him with beady eyes and then recites, as if by rote, “You get a fifty percent discount on a second purchase.” 

Phil bites his lip, considering, and then reaches for the wine-coloured one. He doesn’t even know how much the skirts cost, but he’s already so taken by the soft lace, mesmerised by the thought of it standing out against his pale thighs. He’s always loved women’s clothes, has always begged his female cousins to let him dress them up when they came visiting. It’s never before crossed his mind that maybe -  _ maybe _ , he could have dressed himself up, instead. 

“I’ll have these two, I think,” he says. He might imagine it, or she may grin a bit at that, satisfied. She takes the skirts from him and rings them up at the counter, and then slips them into a cloth bag and hands it to Phil with a chirpy, “Have a good holiday.” 

“You too,” Phil says, fighting down the fear already seeping into his chest, the steady thrum of  _ what have i done what have i done _ chasing itself around his head. 

“See you around,” she says, right before he steps out. He can’t help himself when he thinks back at her,  _ don’t count on it. _

* * *

 

> _ I had to unlearn their prison speak  
>  _ _ Refuse to make wishes on the star on the sheriff’s chest  
>  _ _ I started wishes on the stars in the sky instead  _

* * *

 

“I think we need to talk,” Phil says, after Dan gets home later that evening, kicks off his shoes and falls unattractively onto the couch with a  _ fwump _ . 

He looks over at him curiously and says, “Do we really?” 

Phil swallows.  _ No _ , he thinks. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Okay.” Dan shuffles up a little bit on the couch, so that his back is more vertical now than it was a few moments ago. Must be his way of taking this seriously, and it’s. Kind of nice. Under Phil’s mostly shaky gaze, Dan makes an all-encompassing gesture with his hands and says, “Have at it.” 

Phil snorts at that. He stays quiet for a while, lowers his eyes to the carpet in front of him, and fidgets a bit on the couch he’s been curled up on since returning from out. Still looking away from Dan, he says, “About yesterday.” 

“Which part of yesterday?” asks Dan, who is not apparently hellbent on being a little shit about this. 

“The part where you came home and I was wearing a skirt,” replied Phil, somewhat cuttingly. “About that,” he adds in a softer voice. “I want to know if it’s going to be weird around here.” 

“S’not going to be weird if we don’t let it be weird, I think,” Dan points out sensibly. 

“I just.” Phil screws his eyes shut tightly, and the fingers of the hand he’s got resting on his thigh begin to shake, just a bit. “I just want to know what you think about everything, is all.” 

“Well, I.” Dan clears his throat, and a micro expression flits across his face - one of faint sheepishness, maybe - before he schools his features again. “I may’ve gotten off to it, maybe, once or twice, but besides that I haven’t. Given it much thought, really.”

Phil’s head snaps up, his eyes wide open now as he more or less gapes at Dan. In his veins, his blood runs warm. “You what?” he asks, mostly in shock, but also genuinely disbelieving what he thinks he’s just heard. 

“Gotten off to it.” Dan coughs. He isn’t even looking at Phil, his eyes fixed on the telly, which is blank because they’ve put it on Radio 1 for the night. There are two spots of red high up on his cheeks that are really the only indication that Dan’s just admitted to  _ pulling one off _ to the memory of Phil in a skirt. 

Phil just stares at him, unsure of what to say to that. He quickly assesses his response to what Dan’s just told him, and it’s slightly strange to realise that he isn’t - isn’t  _ pissed _ , not really. He isn’t freaked out, either, if the absence of the urge to pack up and move out soon as he can is anything to go by. He’s - okay, admittedly, slightly flattered, but also a bit. Relieved.  _ Right _ . He isn’t about to say that, though. 

“I don’t think that, uh.” Dan chances a glance at Phil, his eyes just skimming the top of his head, and everything about him right now is the epitome of unsurity. Then he continues, “I don’t think you should be, like, embarrassed of the things you like, or anything. Or the person you  _ are _ . Anything’s fine, long as you’re being yourself. And it doesn’t, um, doesn’t hurt that the things you like and, and the person you are, isn’t - aren’t, um. Hot.  _ Really _ hot. I’m going to stop now.” 

“You do that,” agrees Phil, a tad too loudly. He’s sure his face is red now, if it wasn’t already. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them, and then leans back into the couch and wishes the soft cushions would just swallow him whole, or something. 

“I'm going to leave too,” Dan adds, before slapping his knees loudly like he's an old man with a hip problem. Then he gets to his feet and pats Phil’s head as he passes. Phil watches him move, watches his narrow hips and his lean body and thinks,  _ he got off to me yesterday. _ It makes something unfamiliar stir in the pit of his belly. 

“Where are you off to?” he calls to Dan’s retreating back, craning his neck to watch him head down the hallway to his room. 

“Out with friends,” Dan replies, then stops at his doorway to look at Phil again. “We're going to get burgers and watch the latest Scary Movie in that old cinema on Lincoln Street, you know the one?” Phil nods. “Want me to get a burger for you?” 

“No,” says Phil. “Thanks anyway.” 

When Dan leaves half an hour later, Phil’s still sat on the couch staring at the blank and now quiet telly, nursing a painful hard-on in his jeans. He calls out a goodbye as Dan disappears out of the front door, and hopes to all seven levels of heaven that his voice doesn't sound hoarse and turned on. 

He doesn't quite know what did it for him. Maybe it was the skirts he'd bought earlier, the memory of how the lace felt like sliding through his fingers, the thought of what they'd look like against his pale, pale thighs. How quiet it would be under his skin if he wore one. 

But it may also be the thought of Dan - lithe, coy, cute Dan - wanking to the memory of Phil in a skirt. 

At the thought of it - because he'd been resolutely  _ not _ thinking of it, despite it being an all-encompassing thought in the back of his mind - a sharp current zips down his back and straight to his cock, making it perk up even more and strain against his jeans, begging release. 

Phil unzips his jeans with a sigh, pushing them down to his knees and telling himself  _ not _ to think of Dan. 

He fails at that almost immediately. 

Rubbing the head of his cock through the thin material of his pants, he imagines Dan lying on his back, shirtless and turned on. Naked and horny. Imagines what his skin would like, flushed red against the dark covers of his bed. Imagines Dan snaking one long arm down his own torso, rubbing at his nipples and then at his love handles, making soft sounds, scritching at the jut of the bone over his hip.

He imagines Dan pushing his pants down, taking his long, hard cock with his long, capable fingers, and muttering “ _ Phil, oh god, please, _ ” under his breath - 

Phil comes to the mere thought of it, the staunch hypothetical, and feels filthy almost immediately, even as his cock twitches with a last spurt of come. “Fuck,” he murmurs, taking tissues from the box on the coffee table to wipe up the mess he's made. Then he gets to his feet and zips up his jeans again, heading into the kitchen to make a strong cup of tea. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback/comments are greatly appreciated :]
> 
> [tumblr!](http://oopsiwritefanficdonttellmum.tumblr.com)


	2. this is my heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as it turns out, neither of them go home for christmas. there's something in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if it seems like nothing much happens this chapter, the next (and final) one will be christmassy and (hopefully) redeeming! 
> 
> [oasis - a great big world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tqUbLtwdXPA)
> 
> [i sing the body electric - andrea gibson](http://ohandreagibson.tumblr.com/ising)

> This is my heartbeat  
> Like yours, it is a hatchet  
> It can build a house, or tear one down

 

* * *

 

 

For a solid week after getting thrown out of home, Dan hadn’t known what to do. He’s not usually one to use pretentious words like ‘bereft’ and ‘drifting’, but that was what it felt like, to stay in a sketchy motel and walk to school every day, keep his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor as he attended his last week of classes, and the A Levels that soon followed. 

His parents - pissed as they were about their failure of a son - didn’t cut off his debit card or anything horrid of the sort. So he’d gotten a job after his exams, a seven to five shift at the Tesco’s in the town centre that let him get his groceries for cheap and afford to stay in the motel for another three months. Then his results were released - all A’s except for that B in Economics, which was fine because he hadn’t bothered studying for the exam anyway - and his parents put enough cash in his account to let him send out applications all over the country. Which he didn’t.

What he proceeded to do was enroll himself in Law at Uni of Manchester, get himself a roommate, and then call his mum to tell her he didn’t need their money anymore.

(Brave move, but quite stupid for a number of reasons. One: He’d been fired from the job at Tesco’s after calling in late one too many times. Two: Textbooks were fucking  _ expensive _ . Three:  _ Rent _ was fucking expensive. Thankfully, his mum was smart enough to ignore his demands, and once a month his bank account is replenished with enough money for band merchandise, both his and Phil’s groceries, and cheeky drinks at the pub with the lads.)

Getting into the Uni wasn’t exactly difficult, especially not with grades like his. But finding a roommate definitely was. For a full month into his first semester, he’d kept the room at the motel and put up advert after advert after sodding advert. Then, after a particular fruitless Saturday spent at the library, he spied a plea for a roommate pinned onto the noticeboard outside. It read:  _ 2nd year Media & Mass Comm student looking for university student to share flat with. Must be neat, friendly, not adverse to houseplants. Flat is spacious with nice view of bins, is close to town square, etc. Call Phil at 20 7123 2950 for interview & character assessment. _

He’d snorted, and then he’d called.

The flat was quite a generous space for the rent it came with, and the houseplants weren’t too much of a menace. Also: Phil was  _ nice _ . The first thing Dan noticed about him were his shocking blue eyes, and then the way he smiled with his tongue caught in between his teeth. The third thing he noticed were his mismatched socks. Phil had looked at him and said, immediately, “You don’t  _ look _ like a law student.” Then he’d laughed like he hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

Dan couldn’t tell the future - still can’t, no matter how hard he may try - but he’d known then that they’d get along just fine.

 

* * *

“Mate,” PJ says, leaning into his side and breathing disgusting beer breath into his face. He giggles once, then says, “You’re killin’ my happy.”

“I’m not killing your happy,” Dan says. “You’re drunk and I’m not is what’s going on here.”

“Why not?” PJ asks. He puts even more of his weight onto Dan’s shoulder, pushing him into the bar and getting all up in his personal space. Then he buries his face in Dan’s neck and burps. “M’proper drunk,” he adds sheepishly after.

“That you are,” Dan agrees. He looks forlornly at his first drink of the night, a half-full pint sitting on the bar, now too out of reach. Then he says, “Let’s get you home, mate.”

Outside, the night air is cold and the streets are empty, and Dan is far too sober to have to deal with a piss-drunk PJ sauntering precariously in front of him.

“You don’t seem alright,” PJ says loudly five minutes into their walk. He spins on the spot and jabs a finger into Dan’s chest, effectively stopping him mid-step. “You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong,” he slurs.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Dan shrugs, takes PJ’s finger into his hand and pulls him forward. “I’ve got a paper due next week and I’ve not started yet,” he says into PJ’s silence. “And, like, was thinking maybe the pub crawls need to stop for a bit.” He hasn’t got to look at PJ to know the boy’s frowning.

“You work way too hard,” he accuses.

“I work the regular amount,” Dan corrects. “And so do you.”

The thing is, PJ takes a vague Art and History major, the one with the least conceivable amount of coursework. And Dan, on the other hand, has more coursework than all of the Art and History majors  _ combined _ . So the argument is, for all intents and purposes, valid. And yet PJ says: “I don’t believe you.” Dan exhales once, loudly. “I know it’s about Phil.”

“It’s not about Phil,” says Dan. “You’re drunk.”

“That is true, and also - also, Dan.” He pulls his finger out of Dan’s grip and stops him in his tracks once again, this time with his huge hands on Dan’s small shoulders. “You’ve got to tell him you like him.”

“I  _ don’t _ like him.” Not in the way PJ thinks Dan likes Phil. PJ doesn’t even know Dan is  _ gay _ .

“That’s a lie.” PJ burps again, loudly,  _ in Dan’s face _ . “I’m going to throw up.”

 

 

Dan gets home at half past midnight, and the light in Phil’s room is still on. He stumbles into his own room and trips over a cactus, blindly pulls off his shirt and jeans and pants and falls naked into bed. It’s  _ not _ a lie, he thinks stoutly into the darkness. Dan can’t like Phil - not after getting thrown out of his home, not after not getting to see his brother for seven months now because of he’d be a bad fucking influence, and especially -

Especially not after admitting what he’d admitted before he’d left for the pub.

Especially not after  _ that _ .

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nothing happens the next day. Or the day after that. 

Dan gets his paper done, emails it in. On Tuesday, he meets with PJ for tea at the cafe on campus and they discuss the possibility of Dan going with him to Surrey for the holidays. Even before they start the conversation, however, Dan knows he’d rather be miserable closer to home. “You haven’t got to spend Christmas on your own,” PJ tells him stubbornly. Dan doesn’t say anything, because he’s got the distinct feeling he might not be entirely on his own.

On Friday, he nips down to Tesco’s for the groceries, and decides at the Party Snacks aisle to get marshmallows, popcorn and some beer, too. Maybe he can talk Phil into celebrating a little tonight, now that classes are over for the year. They could have a movie night in, get pissed, have a laugh -

_ Think of the devil _ , Dan muses, when he gets out of Tesco’s to have Phil walk past him on the busy street. His dark hair is uncombed and all but stuffed into the hood of his jacket, in which he’s bundled up even though it’s too early for it to be properly cold yet. Dan almost calls out for him, but Phil’s walking with a purpose that gives him the feeling maybe he doesn’t want to be seen. A moment later, he watches him duck into a shop down the street. From the looks of it, it’s swimming with frocks and skirts and the like.

Ignoring the zip of static that shoots down his spine at the implication, Dan focuses on getting himself back home.

 

 

Dan’s lying on his bed, trying to coax himself into getting his books out and being at least a little productive, when Phil lets himself in later in the evening. 

“Dan?” he calls. “You in?”

“In my room,” Dan calls back. There’s the sound of loud, thumping footsteps going up the stairs, and then the knob of Dan’s room twists, and Phil poked his head in. “Hi,” Dan says, pushing himself up by his elbows.

Phil’s face is red, flushed no doubt from the heavy coat he’s got on when the heating’s turned all the way up in the flat. Dan decides he definitely does  _ not _ imagine it when Phil’s eyes rake down his body. “Hi,” Phil echoes belatedly. Then he meets Dan’s eyes. “Wanted to know when you’ll be going home for Christmas?”

“I’m not,” says Dan, still reeling from the fact that Phil just gave him a once-over while he was spread out on the bed.

“You aren’t?” Something seeps into Phil’s tone now - concern? - replacing the casualness he’d been affecting over the past few days. “You shouldn’t spend Christmas on your own when you’ve got - ”

“Oh, they wouldn’t appreciate me being home for the holidays,” Dan says mildly. “I’m being generous, really. To my parents my absence is a gift even money can’t buy.” He knows he’s exaggerating, if the deepening of Phil’s frown is anything to go by. He  _ could _ pop by to his old home, Adrian definitely misses him enough to come out and say hi. But he doesn’t know if the door would even swing open were his father home - especially now that they know he’s doing okay. Now that they know he  _ can _ live without them.

“Well,” Phil says, haltingly. He obviously doesn’t yet consider it his place to ask for more. “I thought I’d let you know that - I’m leaving for Lancashire tomorrow, m’taking the early train. I’ll be back on the twenty sixth?” He ends it like a question, like he isn’t sure.

Dan nods, once. “Alright, then. Thanks for filling me in.”

“I was hoping you could maybe - ”

“Water your plants?” His elbows have begun to ache from holding himself up, so he gets out of bed and stretches on his feet. “I can do that.”

“Yeah,” says Phil. He licks his lips when Dan walks past him, and Dan tries his hardest not to track the movement with his eyes, but he  _ is _ a gay man with needs. “Are you - what do you want to do for dinner?” he asks behind him.

Dan stops walking and says, tentatively, “I was thinking maybe we’d have a movie night? I’ve got marshmallows for hot chocolate - there’s a mix in one of the cupboards, I saw it last - “

“Yeah, that was me.”

“Yeah, and there’s popcorn - enough for two movies, maybe, if you’re not the kind that finishes the tub in the first fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not,” Phil lets with a little grin.

“Awesome. So, d’you feel up to it?” Dan tries not to make himself sound too hopeful. “Little two-people party to celebrate the end of first semester?”

Phil’s full out smiling now, his lips twitching at the ends like he’s trying very hard to reign himself in.  _ Me too _ , Dan commiserates.  _ Me too. _ “It really depends on what we're going to watch,” says Phil finally.

Dan raises his eyebrows, tries to stamp down the inkling that flirting is occurring.  “Then you'd best get changed and help me make the popcorn, because I've nothing if not a good taste in movies.”

Phil makes a face at him but goes into his room anyway, and doesn’t turn away fast enough for Dan to miss his little grin; the kind he only does on occasion, where his tongue pokes out from the corner and his eye twinkles. Trying not to feel  _ too _ proud of his ability to bring out that kind of smile from Phil, Dan goes into the kitchen to get the popcorn ready.

Dan brings out his duvet and puts it on the floor in front of the telly, and they lie down on it with their pillows and a cup of wine each, bowl of popcorn in between them. They’ve decided to start the night with a Shrek marathon. “Can’t believe you’re the buttery type,” Phil had muttered when Dan brought out the popcorn. “What, d’you like it  _ sweet _ ?” Dan had asked, and then proceeded to make retching noises when Phil nodded. “Shut up,” Phil had said, but he’d been laughing, too.

It’s twenty minutes into the first film that Dan realises Phil’s humming along to the background music. “No fucking way,” Dan says, reaching out across their make-shift viewing station to poke Phil’s side. “How many times have you watched this?”

“Too many to count,” Phil blushes. He grabs a handful of popcorn and throws it into his mouth, and Dan is weak enough to watch him do it. Then he adds, “T’was my study music when I was doing my A Levels, wasn’t it?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Dan says, laughing.

“Nope.” Phil shrugs, not taking his eyes off the screen. “D’you swear all the time, or only when you’re gone tipsy?”

“I’m not tipsy,” Dan laughs again. He’s only on his second glass. “And I swear all the time.” He makes a grand gesture with his hands, almost tipping the bowl of popcorn in the process.

“Sure you aren’t,” Phil says with appraising eyes.

When the movie’s done, Phil insists they watch  _ Pride and Prejudice _ instead of the next Shrek. Dan makes a face and complains loudly about chick flicks, refusing to admit that he’s watched the movie three times before because he’s nothing if not completely weak in the knees for a good classic love story (and Keira Knightly). Halfway through  _ that _ one, Dan shifts over so he’s looking more at Phil than at the movie, and he hears himself ask, “What time’s your train tomorrow?”

Phil doesn’t answer him for a long moment, and then he mumbles, “I don’t know?” Wrapped up in his blue and green duvet and curled up on himself, he looks small. “Seven, I think.”

“In the morning?” Dan presses.

“Yeah. Trains to Lancashire usually leave around that time?” He still sounds unsure of himself.

“Have you…” Dan clears his throat. “Have you, uh. Gotten your tickets yet?”

“Not really,” Phil says quickly,

Right. "So," Dan says, "about that skirt."

Phil freezes up a bit, turns away from Dan. “That’s not the reason why -”

“I wasn’t implying that it was,” Dan says, as gently as he can. Phil stays quiet. "I'm not trying to, like, pry, or make you uncomfortable, or anything. And we never have to talk about this again if that’s what you want, but." Dan takes a rather shaky breath, preparing himself. "What pronouns do you prefer?"

There’s a silence so long it turns to liquid and starts burning up Dan’s insides.  _ I’ve done it now _ , he thinks. Properly gone and fucked this all up, he has. Now Phil will never talk to him again and he’ll have to move out and find another flatmate who doesn’t leave houseplants lying around the flat and have a million different cups in the cupboard, someplace that is actually  _ organised _ and doesn’t have a pleasant view of bins and,  _ and _ -

“The usual ones are fine for now,” Phil says. Dan doesn’t think he imagines the tremor in his voice. All of a sudden Phil’s twisting away, hiding his face in the mattress. “Fuck,” Dan thinks he says, so quietly Dan almost misses it. 

“Hey,” Dan says, moving forward. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s okay,” he tries, reaching out awkwardly to pat at Phil’s shoulder. “I don’t mind. I’m not going to like, hate you, or anything. If you identify as - something else, like. It’s all good.”

He hears Phil sniffle, and realises after one heartbreaking moment that he’s probably crying, curled in on himself, head buried in the duvet, back turned to Dan. And Dan doesn’t know what to do to help. He doesn’t know what to  _ do _ . 

He opens his mouth and says, accidentally, “I’m gay.”

What the  _ fuck _ .

“It’s the reason I don’t stay with my parents.” The words are just. Falling out. And they won’t fucking stop. “I came out to them a few months before my A Levels and, like, that coupled with my stupidness, I think. Always got into trouble in school, got caught smoking up once or twice. It was too much for them, uh, so they threw me out.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. Even  _ PJ _ doesn’t know so much about him.

“So I live with you now and I’m not going home for Christmas.” He slumps down into their makeshift bed and pats at Phil’s shoulder again. “You won’t kick me out, will you? Because then I’ll be proper homeless. And I really don’t mind the skirts.”

Phil turns around to look at him then, the duvet rustling as he shifts, and without his shoulder to rest on Dan’s hand falls to the mattress between them. Phil’s eyes are red-rimmed and Dan’s heart clenches in his chest at the sight. “You’re so stupid,” Phil says, and his voice his hoarse.

“Very stupid,” Dan agrees.

“Of course I’m not going to kick you out,” Phil goes on. “It’s not your fault I’m so - ”

“There’s nothing - ”

“Fucked up, like.”

“You aren’t fucked up.” Now that Phil’s turned around properly, Dan can shuffle forward and touch the sleeve of his shirt, so he does. “There’s nothing fucked up about, you know. Being who you are. Wearing the things you want to wear, and that. It’s nice, even. That you’re doing it, being yourself. It’s good to be good to yourself.”

“Good to be good,” Phil repeats, a hint of a grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Dan says, feeling more and more stupid by the second from how badly he wants to kiss that grin away. “Let’s get back to the movie, then? Keira Knightly was just about to do something  _ really _ hot.”

“Thought you were gay,” Phil murmurs without heat. He shifts around and turns his attention back to the telly, and Dan’s about to do the same in just a moment. He just wants to look at him for a little bit longer, at his small body framed in the blankets and how gentle his features look under the soft lights of the living room.

“I’m allowed to appreciate pretty things,” he says finally, and watches Phil’s eyes flicker at him while his belly swoops dangerously. He grabs a handful of popcorn and stuffs it into his mouth, figuring it’s best not to think about any of that just yet.

 

* * *

 

 

So he’s got a crush on his flatmate. He’s got a crush on  _ Phil _ , whose sexual orientation is at the moment ambiguous, and certainly not up for discussion. He’s got a crush on Phil, who’s figuring himself out and doesn’t need anyone else trying to barge in and have a look around and try and save the day. Not that Dan wants to save the day, because Phil doesn’t need saving, does he? Dan doesn’t think he does. He just wants to be around, have tea with Phil in the mornings and see him sometimes at uni and make him laugh that squeaky, loud laugh where he covers his mouth with his hand and has to look away and calm down. Dan wants to do those things. He wants to be allowed. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

They put on  _ Love Actually _ after  _ Pride and Prejudice _ , and it’s already half past one in the morning and Phil’s yawned three times in the past two minutes, but Dan made a very good argument about Alan Rickman in the movie that Phil gave in to. He feels a bit guilty about it now, though, because Phil’s since sunk into their blankets completely, and curled in a bit on himself, and he’s not asleep but he looks about one deep breath away from it. 

“Hey,” Dan says, elbowing him gently because somewhere between Darcy admitting to his undying love for Lizzie Bennett in the rain, and the opening credits to the next movie, the two of them have drifted close enough for elbowing. Phil is soft and warm to touch and Dan attempts not to dwell too much on that when he says, “We can go to bed, really, I’m good with anything. Was mostly kidding with the Rickman thing anyway.”

“No,” Phil mumbles, “Want to watch the Snape movie.”

Dan can’t help himself when he laughs, his heart tugging painfully with endearment and fondness. “We can watch the Snape movie tomorrow, y’know, s’not anything.”

“You can’t be sleepy, though,” Phil says, turning onto his side to look at Dan, This way, they’re even closer under the blankets, knees a hair’s width away from brushing each other. “You sleep late all the time, don’t you? I hear you sometimes.”

“Oh,” Dan tries not to stiffen but he’s sure it happens anyway. “I didn’t - I, uh. Sorry, do I wake you up?”

“Not really.” Phil blinks at him, sleepily. “What keeps you up?”

Caught off guard, Dan gives him a sheepish grin and his standard answer: “Think too much. Problem of being too smart, innit.”

“Definitely,” says Phil, sounding like he doesn’t quite believe him. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he yawns instead, and that’s Dan’s cue to gather up their blankets and declare it time for bed. They can always watch  _ Love Actually _ tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come say hi on tumblr!](http://oopsiwritefanficdonttellmum.tumblr.com)


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